WeaverWitch

Chapter 12- Decisions

Aeduan tugged and twisted the edges of his ornate red tailcoat, ignoring the way the golden buttons dug into his palms.

This point, this balcony as he looked over the sprawling ballroom full of twirling dresses and satin shirts, was where he had spent the last month fighting, jumping out of ships, running, swimming, bleeding to get to. The treaty was in this palace, and with it his chance to set it all right and take hold of his own future.

And yet, he still could not seem to force himself to take the leap, to dash through the empty hallway behind and get a hold of that cursed paper on which the fate of thousands lay scrawled in black ink.

It seemed to be swallowing him, the hallway a black throat of a yawning monster. He did not enter.

He was waiting for something.

As his boots slowly traced muddy circles on the sheer marble floor, his emotions warred in his chest. It seemed that when he withdrew from the monastery, the clear motivations that it provided for him had left an aching hole of want in his chest.

Wanting for what, he wasn't sure. But he had some hunches.

Music began to play down below him, a Nubrevan four-step. He heard murmuring, noble people asking each other for a dance, charismatic introductions, polite rejections. 

His boot squeaked as he pivoted to the railing, staring down at all of the sea of swirling fabric and glinting jewelry beneath him.

He spared one last look to the dark hallway behind him before beginning his descent down into the unknown.

...

As soon as Aeduan burst into the ballroom, he knew that he had made a mistake. Loud voices- too loud- swirled around him, muting his senses and making him want to curl into a ball and hide. Ahead of him, a mass of writhing limbs and cloth blocked his path to the far side of the ballroom. From there, he would have a clear view of anyone who entered the ballroom.

He considered turning around, returning to his mission like any good monk would.

Instead, he took a deep breath and plunged in.

Skin rubbed against skin, grating on Aeduan like sandpaper. The stiff leather hiding beneath his ridiculously ornate jacket absorbed most of the impact form the elbows that thumped ceaselessly into his sides.

He quickly emerged from the other side, slipping out of the crowd and pressing himself up against a small column. He faced the wall, hidden in the shadow of the pillar cast by the flickering candlelight of the chandeliers, and turned his gaze to the wide stairs at the front of the ballroom.

He would wait until the king entered, and then he would leave to find the truce. That was all.

Of course, the Moon Mother had other plans.

After a few minutes of lying in wait, comfortably out of sight, a chorus of whispers began to flare up in the area of milling noble people behind Aeduan. They wove their way underneath the normal loud threads of conversation, nearly imperceptible but there nonetheless.

Adjusting his uncomfortably tight jerkin, Aeduan sunk deeper into his hiding place. He was used to whispers.

Soon, however, it became clear that the quiet conversations were growing ever louder. He stiffened, blood swirling in his eyes. Tension was building in this room, and he was going to be ready when it broke.

Still, it caught him off guard when a mass of screeching young women and men enveloped him from behind and carried him away from his dark refuge.

...

After a few moments of acute panic, Aeduan realized that the enthusiastic children weren't targeting him specifically. Rather, they were moving across the ballroom like a wave, shoving everyone in the way out of their path or carrying them with them. At first glance, they seemed to be running away from something.

But as he was spat into the middle of the ballroom like driftwood onto a beach, Aeduan looked up to the top of the stairs and realized that that wasn't the case.

It became quite clear that their object wasn't to escape. Rather, it was to chase after someone- namely, the strapping young man in a deep emerald green suit standing at the top of the grand staircase at the forefront of the ballroom. His hair bounced over his shoulders in long golden waves, and every inch of his dazzlingly white grin radiated sincerity and joy.

Aeduan was immediately reminded of the last time he saw this prince.

Tied up on the floor of a hotel room in Tirla, right before he left Iseult and Owl to find his father. Then, the prince had been bleeding and covered in dirt. Now, he was gleaming, the perfect picture of princely brilliance.

Then, he turned his gaze to the hand clutching Leopold's forearm stiffly. It was small, but callouses snd scars stood out clearly agaisnt pale skin.

His gaze rose, and a set of clear hazel eyes locked onto his own.